


Yesterday

by ofrainyskiesandviolets



Category: Derry Girls (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Mentions of Suicide, Reflection, nothing graphic though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2019-12-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21998482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofrainyskiesandviolets/pseuds/ofrainyskiesandviolets
Summary: A letter from his mum leaves James reflecting on the life he lived before Derry, and particularly on his relationship with his stepdad.
Relationships: None
Comments: 23
Kudos: 128





	Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> see end of the work for notes

There are times that James wishes that his stepdad–or, ex-stepdad now–was just his real dad. In an ideal world, he’d wake up and greet Paul as “Dad” and not have to worry about whether he thought of him in the same familial way he did (though he supposes he does a lot of thinking about his mum’s view of him too, and she actually conceived and birthed him).

Since going to Derry he’s found himself longing for his stepdad more and more. When the first news of the separation was broken, his mother had danced circles around it so gracefully that James hadn’t even flinched, though he realizes now that perhaps it hadn’t quite hit him yet. Alone in his room, however, tucked into the corner of his Auntie Deirdre’s cramped Irish home, his situation's permanence finally resonates within him, and he allows himself to break down. Although shame tugs at the bag of his mind, his Irish blood making its presence known, he feels as though he deserves to wallow, at least a bit. 

Everything about this strange new world is unfamiliar. He feels like he’s trekking into entirely uncharted territory, stalked by small-town Irish folk who know everything about everyone, including him. James is under a microscope, or at least it feels like he is, being poked and prodded by not just his family and their friends who he still isn’t if sure he should call his own, but by every lone stranger lurking down the cobblestone streets. He misses the hustle and bustle of London, longs to be wrapped up in its arms, held against its chest and sucked into the endless vortex of people and smog and gray buildings. In London, he felt like he could be anybody and do anything; in Derry, he feels like he’s constantly going to be defined by things he can’t control, and things he didn’t even have knowledge of–his accent, his mum, his almost-being-aborted. He wishes he could call his stepdad and ask him if he’d known about that last one. Scratch that, he wishes he could call his stepdad at all, but he didn’t even know where he was.

Paul was a great man, truly. Always there for James, always showing up to his football games and school events; even when his mum was too busy, Paul was there, he would always be there, or so he thought. James missed him, almost more than he missed his mum, and no amount of dinners with his aunt and uncle or time with the girls will make up for that. His ragtag family left a giant, gaping hole inside of him, and suddenly he hates himself for not being more appreciative of what he’d had when he’d had it. 

It’s late at night, and the dark sky and cold air cling to his skin, but he can’t bring himself to lay down and bundle up under his covers, too engrossed in staring at the postcard in his hands. Her lines are brief and clipped, and in this moment, he realizes how impersonally she writes her notes to him, hastily and almost sloppily, as though writing to her only child is but a mere roadblock in her busy day. Over and over again he labors over each sentence, each vague answer to his curious and pleading questions, and squeezed on the tail end, “Paul and I signed the papers. He said he’ll give you a ring. If he does, I don’t want to hear about it.” He can see the hidden meaning: she wants Paul–his dad, more or less–to be completely cut out of not only her life, but ideally his too. 

It strikes him that his mother is quite selfish—it always does when he’s alone, and then once he’s in her presence again, he allows the wool to get pulled over his eyes again, and that veil of mindless adoration to take him over. He doesn’t know what it is about his mother that makes him lose all sense of how he should and deserves to be treated. He has a feeling he’d let her strangle him if she wanted to. At least she’d be showing him attention.  
Paul acted like a father to him all the time, regardless of its convenience, and James appreciated that. He regrets not having given more thanks when he still could. He really hopes Paul will actually ring him, even more than he hopes his mum will take him back. It wouldn’t be the same there anyway, without the man who had been in his life for almost as long as he could remember. 

James tries to think about what his stepdad would say to him if he were talking to him right then, but his mind isn’t working right now, it seems, can’t dredge up the advice he yearns for. Instead, all he can do is replay moments with his stepdad over and over.  
_________________

He’s five and his mum pulls him from his cozy nest of blankets, into the crisp winter air. Their flat never felt warm enough for him, but his mum was always adamant that he’d be okay–he’s just too small to fully withstand the cold. James doesn’t think he’s too small. He’s five years old, after all!  
She sits him on the floor, situating herself on the lowered toilet lid, trying to wrangle his unmanageable curls. No matter what, it always sticks up everywhere. It frustrates his mum to no end, who spends all day matting it down incessantly, but he doesn’t mind; hair-brushing was his least favorite time of the day, anyway, it always felt like she was trying to rip off his scalp.

“Where are we going, Mum?” he groans. He’d much rather be back in his bed, enjoying his Saturday morning in a sleepy bundle.

“We’re going to meet Paul, love.” His mother’s voice is sweet like honey, her accent lilting and rich. He likes her accent, even if it is weird. He used to think only adults could sound like her, because he’d only ever met his aunt and grandparents to speak like that, none of his classmates did, and he certainly didn’t. But then his mother said he had a cousin his age who spoke just like them. Apparently they’d even met but had been too wee to remember. Imagine that! James thinks he’d like to meet his cousin Michelle again. He’d like a friend with a fun accent. 

James pulls a face. He doesn’t like Paul. He’d never met him, but he knew he took his mum away for nights and left him with the elderly couple next door, in a flat that smelled weird, the food was gross and mushy and the television was never turned on, just a fuzzy old radio that crackled with static and sputtered dust out of its speakers. The only fun thing was when the radio station played the Beatles. He’d come to like them, but everything else it played was boring. 

“Oh, hush. You’ll like him.” She gives up on his hair soon enough, telling him to go brush his teeth and get himself dressed. She whisks away into the other room, and James hears her closet creak open and the hangers rattle inside of it. He’s glad she isn’t there to make sure he brushes well enough, it always took too long for his liking. 

By the time he’s dressed, his mother has moved back into the bathroom and began to do her makeup. James sits on the toilet and watches her smear color across her face. He likes watching her do her makeup. It feels like a moment to themselves, away from the city and the cold. Their own world, just him and his mum. He didn’t have a dad, his mum said that he wasn’t nice, so James didn’t mind. The sun, still low and golden-tinted, reaches up through the frosted glass of the bathroom window, casts low shadows across the bathroom, a block of color lighting up the tile of the bathroom floor. He pulls himself off his perch and curls up in a ball on the floor, lays in the heated patch of tile. He closes his eyes against the sunlight and relishes in the way the sunlight streaming through the glass warms his skin.

“James, get up.” His mother has paused in her ritual, her wand of black goop poised in her hand. She stares him down from the mirror. “Go put your coat on, we’re leaving in a moment.” 

He hates his thick parka. It’s hard for him to move in, and his classmates always made fun of him for its bright pylon orange. His mum would never buy him a new one, though, not until after his wrists were poking out of the sleeves, exposed pale flesh on display, susceptible to the biting air. She’d bought this one while out on her lunch break one day; she hated shopping with him, he was too particular for her tastes, fabrics couldn’t be too stiff or too soft, certain colors made him unhappy, he needed the tags poking out cut as short as possible or else he’d feel it scratching at the back of his neck all day. Sometimes he worried that she didn’t like him. He’d told his friend Andrew this, but he said that he was being ridiculous, she was his mum and mums always liked their sons. 

His mum holds his hand as they leave the flat, and James waves goodbye to his home as he walks away. He hates for his house to feel abandoned, his mum would chuckle and tell him he was strange, rub at his hair a bit before dissolving back into patting it down. 

The air nips at his skin as they make their way through the city streets, whiffs of perfumes and colognes pass him by, tickling his nose. Passerby brush him as they slip past, and their coats make funny noises as they swish against each other. At the street corner, waiting for the lights to turn, he peers into the window of the café, gets distracted by his own reflection staring back at him. His nose and cheeks are rosy, and his breath fogs up the glass, masking his face under its smokescreen. He draws a smiley face in it, and smiles back at it. 

His mum grabs his hand and guides him across the lines of the crosswalk, chiding him for leaving her side. Doesn’t he know he could get whisked away by the flow of passerby? James stays quiet and holds his free, mittened hand up to his nose and presses it into the cold flesh. His hot breath gathers up in the fabric of his mitten, and he feels the ice-cold grip the air has on his face loosen a smidge.

His mother takes him to a small restaurant that serves breakfast and lunch only, crammed into the middle of a busy London street, flanked by a bookstore and a florist. In front of the shop stands a tall man, with mousy brown hair and tan skin—tan for London standards, that is. He smiles at James’ mum, then looks down at him and does the same. James hides behind his mother’s legs. He doesn’t like strangers. 

“Hello, Kathy,” the strange man greets, planting a polite kiss on her cheek. 

“Hello, Paul.” James had imagined Paul as a menacing giant with warts and sharp teeth, someone intent on stealing his mum away from him. He has trouble connecting the image of his mum’s friend with this smiling, almost cherubic man, but that doesn’t stop him from cowering even further behind his mother when the man turns to him once again. He really doesn’t like strangers. 

“Alright, James? Nice to meet you, I’m Paul.” If it were up to James it would just be him and his mum forever, no Paul or anyone else, just the two of them in their flat eating toasties and chips. 

“James, don’t be rude,” his mother chides. “Say hello.” He doesn’t want to. Strangers scare him, and this man, despite being seeming kind enough, scares him so much. His mum hates when he’s like this. She always told him he was too scared, but he didn’t care if this man hated him forever, James knew he certainly would dislike Paul forever. 

“It’s alright, Kathy.” The man looks back down at him. “A shy lad, huh? Well, there’s no problem with that. How about we head inside, huh? It’s perishing out here.” The response baffles him, so nonchalant and un-offended even though his mother was certain that James would ruin his chances for relationships with others with his immediate wariness. He doesn’t know what to think about Paul anymore, but must reluctantly admit to himself that he appreciates not being scolded or scoffed at for not wanting to talk, something most of his mum’s other friends did. He didn’t think he was being rude by not wanting to chat, but almost every adult he’d met thought otherwise. He didn’t understand how adults felt so comfortable chatting up anyone and everyone, and he always wished they’d just leave him alone, and Paul seemed okay with that. James decides he doesn’t know what to think about this strange man, but he supposed he doesn’t completely hate him. Maybe. He guesses.  
_________________

Paul moves into their flat in a way that seems quite sudden, but maybe that’s just because James has never had a dad–or anyone for that matter–living with him and his mum before. Regardless, he finds it’s almost hard to breathe with this new flurry of activity. Paul is always nice and upbeat and trying to get him involved and James isn’t used to it. He likes being left alone sometimes (though not as much as he often was before the interloper arrived) and he seemingly never is anymore.

When he tells his mum that Paul is weird and talks too much she simply says that he was trying to help him feel comfortable having him around. He sits on her lap while Paul is away getting groceries and lets her stroke his hair, in a way much more calming than her normal matting. 

“He’s worried you don’t like him, love,” she croons in his ear. When she breathes this close to his neck it makes his hairs stand up.  
“I don’t.”  
“I know, James,” she sighs. “But I really think you could if you just give him a chance. Can you do that for me?” James reluctantly agrees, mumbling into her neck.

A few nights later he finds himself unable to sleep–his blankets aren’t warm enough, he’s not tired, and he keeps seeing scary shapes in the corner of his room (which no matter how many times he pulls the cord on his lamp to see a pile of clothes and nothing else, you’ll never convince him it’s not out to get him).

Out in the living room he can hear the TV droning quietly, a murmur of voices low and full of static. Sometimes his mum stays up to watch the news, and all James wants in that moment is to go curl up beside her, lay his head on her lap and let a news anchor’s quiet, buzzing voice lull him to sleep. 

He drags himself out of bed and wraps his blanket around him like a cloak. The hallway flashes with blue television light, shifting the shadows throughout the flat and giving everything an otherworldly glow. James walks with trepidation, carefully avoiding the particularly loud, creaky floorboards. He’s memorized them by now. The whole world feels different at this time of night, where all he can hear is passing cars and wind hitting the windows. 

James is so excited to fall asleep with his mum that seeing Paul sat there instead is like a punch to the gut, all his air knocked from his lungs. He feels so endlessly disappointed that he starts to turn away and go back to his room, ready to resign himself to a night of restlessness alone in his dark room. (His mum never liked him climbing into bed with her, only making exceptions for when he was sick or had had a particularly bad day at school.) Sometimes he hates himself, he decides, as in his saddened stupor he manages to hit one of the floorboards he always so carefully avoids. 

Paul twists in his seat and looks back at him, face shroud in the darkness, a blue halo around his head. James curses his inability to stay silent; as Paul gazes over at him, he feels as though he’s under a microscope.

“Alright, James?” Paul’s voice is low, and it reminds him almost of how his mum speaks to him in the early mornings, soft and sleep-ridden. James stands in the middle of the room, wringing his hands in his blanket and hardly daring to look at the man before him. 

“Um, yeah. I thought my mum was out here,” he responds. His voice sounds loud. He winces. 

“Afraid not, just me.” James resists the urge to bite back that he can clearly see that. “You know, I think that’s the most you’ve said to me in one go before.” James stays silent, stares at him and blinks. He isn’t sure how to respond to that. Is he supposed to apologize? 

“So, are you having trouble sleeping?” Although he’s sure it’s just a trick of the light, Paul looks concerned for him, searching his face for a sign of distress. James looks down the dark hallway and craves just being back in his bed. 

“No, I’m fine.” Paul looks skeptical. He peers into his eyes and furrows his brow, making it clear he doesn’t quite believe him. He concedes anyway. 

“Alright. Well, if you’d like, you’re welcome to join me. Plenty of room on the couch.” 

James starts to walk away, but the television catches his eye. There’s bright colors and a man in an eccentric hat talking about time. He’s never seen this program, but he knows it’s certainly not his mum’s normal news program. He wants to continue walking, but curiosity holds him back. Of course, he’d never want Paul to realize this.  
In the midst of trying to stay quiet, his mum’s voice rings in his head, asking him to give Paul even just a fleeting chance. James sighs. He’d do anything for his mum. James walks over to the couch and sits as far away from Paul as possible, on opposite ends. The arm presses into his side, hard and firm, like a jab into his ribcage. Paul is leaning back into the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table, arms crossed over his chest. His mum’s thick, knit blanket sits over his lap; James pulls his own tighter around him. 

“What are you watching?” Paul smiles at him, having watched his endeavor out of the corner of his eye the entire time. 

“Doctor Who. Great show. Must be, considering it’s been running for 25 seasons.” James has never heard of such a long show, and as much as he desires to hate this thing that Paul likes, he’s still impressed by its massive length. 

“What is it about?”

Paul begins to explain, talking about time lords and science fiction, and time machines that are bigger on the inside, and James reluctantly admits to himself that the lore of this show is fascinating. A chill washes over him as he’s listening, reminding him of the way the cold has bitten at him all night. Paul stops and looks over, watching the small boy shiver. He shifts the blanket across his lap, holds it up and open. The gap beneath it stares James down. 

“How about we share, huh? Your mum’s blanket is big enough for the both of us, certainly warm enough too.” An internal debate fires back and forth in James’ mind. He doesn’t like Paul, never will like him, but the blanket looks so cozy and warm, and James can almost feel the fabric scratching up against his skin. No matter how itchy it is, he does love that blanket. The desire for warmth wins, and James sidles over and under it, letting Paul drop it over his lap. The joint protection of both blankets immediately pushes the cold away.

Their combined body heat build up, and the only place the air still bites is the tip of his nose and the apples of his check. He appreciates sharing the blankets, feeling infinitely more comfortable now than he did before. James lets himself be sucked into the program, and thinks to himself that maybe Paul isn’t as bad as he thought after all.  
_________________

Somehow, James’ mum manages to two and a half years before she and Paul decide to get married. He’d honestly expected it to come sooner, with the way she was always gushing about how this was the real deal, unlike any other relationship she’d ever had. The duo goes for the non-conventional eloping, and James is the only one who knows. He’s sworn to secrecy by his mum, and then taken to Brighton on an unusually warm and dry weekend in July. 

His mum and soon-to-be stepdad arrange for a traveling wedding officiant to meet them on one of the town’s rather rocky beaches. On this particular day, the temperature actually slides a bit above the typical average of 27 degrees, though not by much. James still appreciates the warmth and uncommon sunshine. He’s seven now, though if you say that he’ll always tell you that he’s almost eight (despite, really, just having turned seven mere months ago). 

James looks for cool rocks around the shore as his family stands further up the beach. His mom refuses to go too close before the ceremony takes place, wanting to protect her white sundress from saltwater and dirt. He focuses on the sound of the waves crashing over the shore, ignoring his mum’s giggling as she and Paul kiss and wait to get wed. He’s happy for them, he is, especially since by now he’s realized that Paul isn’t a bad guy to have around. 

“James, love, don’t get all wet and dirty before the wedding. Keep your clothes clean,” his mum calls down to him. He decides not to bite back that he’s not even particularly close to the water, and the waves haven’t even come close to hitting him. He’d rather not upset his mum now, and he moves his search further away from the water, stuffing his loot into his pockets. He likes rocks, and there just aren’t enough in London. 

When the wedding officiant arrives, and two strangers who happened to be at the beach have agreed to act as their witnesses, James stands behind his mum and watches as the couple profess their love to each other. He feels uncomfortable watching this. He always learned that weddings happened in churches with priests and family present, but instead it’s just him, two random beachgoers, an officiant and a photographer. It feels weird, though he supposes it’s much more interesting than a normal wedding, and Paul will officially be a part of the family after this. That’s nice. That makes him happy. 

Paul catches his eye while the officiant goes through the promises that the man must make to his mum to get married. He smiles at him and then back at his mum as he says the fated words.

“I do.”

And despite adamantly disliking him when they first met, James smiles too.  
_________________

James is ten and wakes up with an enormous weight on his chest, lead in his muscles, and fire eating away at his throat. He’s hot and sweaty, but when he moves the blankets off of him, he feels an intense cold fall over him. He knows in that moment he’s ill, and although sick days normally made him happy (with missing school and all that), he feels awful enough that he doesn’t even care. He’d rather be in class, actually.

His mum comes into his room and asks him if he’s feeling okay. Apparently his eyes are glassy and his cheeks are flushed bright red. He sniffles and tells her he feels like proper shite. He’d heard one of his classmates say shite a few days before, and he thought it sounded cool and grown-up.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I’d prefer you didn’t cuss, James.” His mom leaves the room and he thinks he’s angered her, but she returns with a thermometer and makes him sit up, sticking it under his tongue. His tongue feels too large for his mouth, and this added intruder is not welcome. The loud beeping of the thermometer sounds extremely loud, piercing his head with its shrill droning. His mom frowns down at it. “38 degrees. You’re staying home, love.” 

James lays back down and wraps the blankets around him, shivering. His mum, the blasted woman, pulls his comforter away and tells him not to bundle up too much, he’s hot enough as it is. He doesn’t feel hot. Though maybe he does. His temperature does flips and he can’t seem to decide on whether he’s burning up or absolutely freezing. 

His mum calls for Paul, and the two stand outside his door and talk in hushed tones. James wonders if they know he can still hear them. 

“I can’t stay home, I have a very important meeting, Paul,” his mum is saying. “If that makes me a bad mother, then I’m sorry, but I cannot miss this meeting.”

“I never said you were a bad mother, Kathy, don’t jump to that conclusion. It’s alright, I can stay home with him. I’ll call out.” Paul’s footsteps shuffle away, heavier and more trodden than his mum’s short, clipped movements. Her heels clack into the room and she tells him that Paul is going to look after him today. James doesn’t answer. He’s drifting away back into the depths of sleep.

He wakes up to beeping and buzzing fluorescent lights turned dim above him. The light in the corner quivers every few moments, not quite able to function at this low level. The bed beneath him is not his bed, and this ceiling is not his ceiling. Paul’s voice snaps him out of his confusion.

“James, are you feeling any better?” He realizes then that he does feel a bit more normal, less like he wants to burst out of his skin and disappear. There’s a needle in his hand, and he can feel cool liquid drip into his veins. 

“Am I in the hospital?” Paul nods fretfully and shifts in his seat.

“Why?”

“I went to wake you up for some lunch and you wouldn’t budge, and you were burning up. I’m glad I brought you in though, when you got here, your temperature was just about 40 degrees. You proper scared me.” 

“Oh.” James notices he can’t remember anything since his mum came into his room that morning, and thinks he must’ve been really out of it to have such a gap in his memory. “Where’s my mum?”

“She’s on her way,” Paul tells him. “It took her a while to get out of work, but she’s coming, James. Don’t worry.” Paul tentatively lays his hand on his wrist. Despite living together for five years, his stepdad still worried about overstepping his boundaries. James really didn’t mind him acting like a father. He’d never had one, and it felt kind of nice. James curls on his side and scoots closer to the edge of the bed, leaning into the touch. Paul’s hand is cool and soothes his burning skin. It’s comforting having him there. It makes him feel safe enough to close his eyes, even in this unusual place.

“I’m glad you’re here, Paul.” He hears the man intake a deep breath, and he begins to rub slow, soothing circles on his skin with his thumb.

“Of course I am, I had to make sure my favorite little man was okay.”  
_________________

James is eleven and finishing up the school year when he grasps that his mum has a tendency to flake out on her commitments, particularly when it comes to him. He thinks he probably should’ve noticed it before, because this certainly wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but maybe he’d simply wanted to ignore it.  
He’s finally at the end of his primary education, getting ready to take the next step into secondary school, and he should be excited. He was excited, until just moments before. He’s at his commencement ceremony, about to receive an award for his excellence in art throughout his school career, and the air is stolen from his lungs at what he feels like should’ve been the most important point of his life so far.

Standing on the stage next to his art teacher, he peers out into the crowd of eager parents and realizes his mum isn’t there. Anywhere. He finds Paul, and his stepdad smiles at him, but there’s no empty seats around him, and no one around him is her. He can’t listen to his art teacher describe his work anymore, because all he can think is that she promised. She promised she’d be here. More than just be here. She’d assured him that she’d be in the front row, ready to cheer him on. She’d be the loudest one there, she’d said. The proudest parent with the best child. 

James knows that no one else realizes his mum isn’t there, but he still flushes with embarrassment. All these kids waving at their parents and feeling the love and support from those that brought them into this world, and the only person who came for him technically wasn’t even family. Not in the biological sense, at least. He feels ashamed. Why was nothing he did good enough for her? She was always so preoccupied with other things. His football games, his parent-teacher conferences, his achievements–nothing could ever surpass the things his mum decided she cared about, whether that was work or friends or social events. Why wasn’t he ever one of those things she deemed important? Her own son, and she’d still rather chose anything else.

He sits back in his auditorium seat, sinks low and tries not to cry. It all seems extremely frivolous to him now, this flimsy sheet trying to celebrate him. He resists the urge to crumple the blasted thing up and abandon it on the floor, tucked underneath the rows of red folding seats. He stares down at his certificate and his name stares back at him. James Maguire, the ever unwanted son. He feels lower than dirt. 

After the ceremony he finds his stepdad in the crowd. Paul waves at him and smiles like nothing has happened, but James can tell that he feels bad that he’s the only one here. He walks over to him and blinks up at him.

“James, your mum wanted to be here, but she… She–“ He’s cut off as James lunges forward and hugs him, wraps his arms around his torso and buries his face in his chest, tears burning in the back of his eyes.

“Thank you for coming.” Paul swallows and rubs a hand through his hair. It’s different than when his mum does it. She either does it to smooth his curls, or just runs her fingertips along his scalp in a concentrated place. Paul uses his full hand, strong and warm, and slides it comfortingly across his hair.

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”  
_________________

By the time he’s thirteen, Paul has pretty much become his favorite person in the world, though he would never admit that. It makes him feel guilty, like he’s abandoning his mother. He especially feels bad about it in the moments where she is acting motherly and kind, and he finds himself being entranced by the love he feels for her. He does love her, though he worries that loving Paul as well makes that all fake and superficial. 

He thinks about this a lot when he’s alone, or when he’s with Paul without his mum. He thinks about this as he and Paul drive along the countryside roads of Devon. Paul’s parents lived there, and they visited each summer. His step-grandparents loved him, and he liked them a lot, but they were a little odd–always talkative and friendly, and almost overeager to act like his grandparents. He appreciates the gesture, but he finds it a bit overwhelming at times. Paul must realize that, as this evening, right before the sun began setting, he asked him if he wanted to go for a drive. They had just finished dinner (Paul’s parents ate extremely early for his tastes), and James was worn-out by all the social time, so he jumped at the opportunity.

The air is balmy and thick, humidity still lingering from the earlier rainstorm. There are still dark clouds perched in the sky, but they break up enough to let the sun, just beginning to set, light the world in warm hues, butterscotch and marmalade blankets of rays. The windows are wide open, and James has his chin rested on the passenger-side window’s frame, looking out into the sun-baked backwoods. The wind slaps his face, tepid and burning his eyes. In the distance, the trees dance listlessly in this sultry June zephyr. 

Paul has the radio on, and Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong serenade the summertime draught. Neither him or Paul speak much, too focused on the way the sunset plays with the shadows of the long, empty road and rolling fields of grass and trees. James is quiet by nature, and he appreciates the comfortable silence. Down to the very first day they met, Paul never forced him to speak if he didn’t want to. He understood James in a way that sometimes it felt like his own mother didn’t. The pressure of conversation always felt high around his mum, and he cherishes these moments of collective quiet. It all is very serene and halcyon, the very definition of these lazy warm months. 

He hopes that these moments of swaying tall grasses and iridescent wildflowers, of low light and long shadows, will never end.  
_________________

He knew the seemingly carefree days of his mum’s relationship with Paul wouldn’t last forever, saw the signs of its imminent demise years ago, heard the voice of the end singing in the back of his mind get louder and louder with each increasingly common fight. 

He hates listening to it. He hates hearing the yelling and the cursing, and he hates having to try to decide who’s side he’s on. Does he lean towards the woman who gave birth to him, clothed him and fed him, who’s approval he’s desperately craved since he was a child? Or does he go to the man who took to him like a father despite not sharing a drop of blood, despite the years of their lives the other would never know, who he spent hours wondering if they’d ever actually have the relationship he desired? James loathes himself for not being able to decide. Is he really so stupid that he can’t figure out his relationships? Can’t find or fathom the roots of these connections, can’t figure out if they truly are the way he sees them. The dumbest fucker ever, that’s what he is. 

He leans against the bars of his fire escape, let the cool metal dig into the soft, porcelain flesh that wraps itself around his skull. The fighting magnifies every inch of his being, makes him extremely aware of the space that he takes up. Would things be like this if he weren’t here? If there weren’t disagreements over parenting and the way he got treated? In Paul’s eyes, his mum treated him like shit. In his mum’s eyes, Paul was trying to turn her baby against her, ruin the relationship she’s built for years.

He closes his eyes, lets London cover his senses, silence the shouting. Everything about her is familiar. She breathes factory fumes and exhaust pipes, sings the bellowing of car horns and the endless chatter of her children. London is a harsh and stormy mother, but the familiar rhythm of her skyscraper heartbeat leaves him comforted and breathless, and he can overlook every flaw about her. She forces his eyes shut, draws him into her illusions, and even though he knows what she’s doing, has had her tricks figured out for years, he just can’t bring himself to break free. He would do anything for her, be anything for her. Why wasn’t it good enough? 

When his tears fall, they plunge into the crowded streets. London swallows them up in her asphalt belly and they disappear, lost to the city and the people. Not even James can see where they landed. Gone as soon as they came. Vanished into thin air. There isn’t enough space in the world to house all of him. He was overflow, essentially. Or at least that was what it felt like.

It’s only when his window slides open further and the air shifts around him that he notices the noise in his apartment has finally fallen flat. One of his parents sits beside him. He glances. Paul, of course. Always Paul. His mum’s nerves were always to frayed to come find him. It would be the next day that they’d speak about it, if they even did at all. If they did, she’d explain, but never quite apologize. She was too keyed up, too frustrated. She felt absolutely torn apart, and it hurt her to let him see her like this. He understood, didn’t he? And of course, he always said he did. No matter what.

“Alright, James?” Paul speaks gentle. His voice is always warm.

“Yeah, fine.” James stares into the heart of the beast and tightens his grip on the fire escape. His legs dangle in the air, weightless. “Where’s Mum?”

“She went to her friend, Julie’s house for the night. Said she’d be back tomorrow. She told me to say she loves you.” James wishes that for once she’d just tell him that herself. 

“Yeah, okay.” Paul sighs and lays a hand on his, and James can feel his sad eyes bore into the side of his face.

“Look, James, I know all this isn’t ideal. And-and, I wish that your mum and I weren’t fighting so much, I really do.”

“Then why do you do it?” James wants so desperately for it all to stop. There is so much that he can’t control, but, god, does he want to. 

“I… I don’t know. Sometimes people do things they don’t like to do. I know I don’t like fighting your mum this much.”

“Then stop. Please, just stop doing it.” He’s begging at this point. He feels like a proper idiot doing this, staring into Paul’s forlorn face, feeling the tears burning his skin as he pleads for things he knows will probably never change. 

“You know I can’t do that.” Paul looks saddened by the notion, by his own words. James itches to slap that crestfallen look off his face. What right does he have to get so upset if he won’t even change what he’s doing?

“But why?”

“Because I think there are some serious flaws in the way your mom treats people, especially you. A-and I know she’s your mum and you might not like to hear this, but I can’t just sit by and let her go on with this idea of superiority, especially when she’s letting her son get fucked over in the process. When she’s as good as neglecting her child.” 

“My mum doesn’t neglect me. She loves me. She does.”

“I know she does, James, but I also think she doesn’t seem to realize how often she throws the people she loves to the wayside.” James absolutely despises hearing these words come out of his stepdad’s mouth. He knows it. Deep down, he knows that his mum’s view of herself is skewed, and that she’d probably never break through that mentality enough to truly love, but he craved to one day be proven wrong. He’d spent countless nights turning over every time his mum had shown him tenderness and telling himself over and over again that someday she’d change. Someday she would realize that he was the love of her life, that she was proud of him and that her life had instantly changed for the better as soon as he was born. Someday she would love him like his friends’ mums loved them. Someday, someday, someday. 

James can’t stand to break down, but he can’t control himself as he collapses into the fire escape and lets heaving breathes escape his lungs. Overflow. Overflow in his own mum’s life. Paul wraps him up in his arms and holds him to his chest, holds him as he cries. James swears he can feel every fiber in his body break apart and disintegrate. Why does his mother have such a hold on him? He couldn’t ever explain it. 

“She loves me, Paul. I know she does. She loves me.”

James’ entire body feels flushed and shaky as he sobs, all the while Paul rubs his back and holds him. James loves Paul, he does, but part of him still can’t help but wish that it was his mum holding him instead. All this ruminating on why nothing was good enough for his mum, and now James is worrying that maybe it’s him that nothing’s good enough for. Maybe his mum is just a normal person living her life, a great mother and person; maybe Paul did see him as a son and all his worrying is just him looking for something he could be unhappy with. His mum always said he thought too much–too pessimistic, too concerned about everything that could go wrong, even if it likely never would. He feels like a fraud letting Paul continue to comfort him, but still, he lets him hug him and speak softly into his ear.

“I know, I know. It’ll all be alright, James. I promise. We’re all going to work this all out, as a family. It’ll be okay. I promise. I promise.” 

And the entire time, the city buzzes with life beneath them, as busy and oblivious as always. London has no memory.  
_________________

James is fourteen when he has his first personal encounter with death. He comes to school, and it’s like any normal day. His best friend, Chris, isn’t there, but that’s okay. Things happen, he’d missed school before and always came back. Things always returned to normal. Just like any normal day.

The principal comes on the intercom and announces with somber tone that “unfortunately, one of our students, Christopher Bailey, has passed away,” and suddenly, it isn’t any normal day anymore. 

James had known people who’d died. There was his mum’s friend, and Paul’s elderly, reclusive great uncle. He’d even seen a dead body. He’d stumbled across an old man in the park after he’d died. The man had had a heart attack, and James found him leaning against a tree with a book in his lap, eyes staring up into the distant sun. It had frightened him, yes, but it was all okay. He didn’t even think about it anymore. Okay, he did, but not nearly as often as he used to. He didn’t know these people, so it was all okay. 

In his first period, he’s pulled out of class and taken into the office with all the other kids that were friends with Chris. They’re all sat in the counselor’s office with a woman he’s never seen before. An outside professional, the principal tells them, to help them deal with their grief. It’s then that he finds out that Chris killed himself, and James doesn’t know how to react. Sylvia starts crying; Noah says he can’t believe it, keeps repeating that over and over; James stares at the floor and doesn’t say a word.

The professional, a black woman with kind eyes and a soothing voice, talks to each of them, lets them hash out their feelings. When she lands on him, he doesn’t know what to say, besides, “He never told me.” 

“Well, James–“ He isn’t sure how she knew his name. “–often times, when someone is in a place where they’re considering suicide, they feel as though they have no one to talk to—like they’re alone.” 

“But he wasn’t.” It’s then that the gravity of the situation hits him. He’d been in a state of shock sense the announcement, unable to think or cry or grieve. He absolutely crumbles in that moment, crying harder than Sylvia or Noah or Aaron. Chris is his best friend, was his best friend. What was he meant to do without him? 

James is utterly inconsolable, and eventually they call his mum to try and have her pick him up. She doesn’t answer, and they call Paul instead. He answers on the second ring and is at the school within thirty minutes, leading James into the car and letting him sob in peace as they drive away. When they arrive outside their flat, he parks the car along the sidewalk and waits until he’s cried himself out.

Paul sighs. “Why don’t go get some chips, huh?” It’s almost inappropriate given the circumstances, but James appreciates the normalcy and nods, stares out the window on the way to the nearest diner. It’s only once they’re seated inside, picking at their shared food, that Paul brings up the subject of Chris.

“I’m really sorry to hear about Chris, James.” He doesn’t answer. “He was a good kid, I really liked him.” Again, he doesn’t answer, and Paul falls silent too, letting them share their chips and ruminate on the situation at hand. When they’re close to done, James stares at the last chip in the bottom of the boat and thinks about death. 

“I’m going to miss him,” he says finally, eyes still trained on the lonely, cold bit of potato. “A lot.” 

Paul reaches across the table and lays a hand on his. “I know, son.” He looks down at the table and then flags the waitress down for the check. “How about we head home, huh? You could use some sleep.” James appreciates that he isn’t going to force him to talk more than he wants to yet, that he’ll just let him curl up in bed and think things through before he’s airing out all his emotions. Paul always seemed to know what to do.

They leave the shop, and James still thinks about the single chip they left. As stupid as it is, he hopes that it’s doing okay.  
_________________

James can’t say he’s surprised when his mum announces that she and Paul are getting a divorce, though he didn’t expect he’d told to pack his bags and prepare to head to Derry. He packs nothing but a small suitcase, only to have his mother say he want might a bit more, they’re going to be gone for a long time. How long? he wants to asks, but he bites his tongue, unwilling to face the potential answer of “forever.” 

London is his home, and Derry is just the place where his aunt, uncle and brash cousin live. As callous as it may sound, Derry means nothing to him. There’s nothing there for him. Sometimes it feels like there’s nothing there for him here either. His best friend is dead and he still hasn’t found anyone he feels that close too, Paul wouldn’t be around even if they stayed, and his flat would be an empty reminder of everything that was missing–it’d be back to him and his mum, like it hadn’t been in almost a decade. His mum was insistent that this would be good for them, and he isn’t sure he has the faith in his system to refute that. 

When the news is first broken, James goes into his room and stares out the window. Paul comes in and promises him that everything will be okay, that he’ll stay in contact, once things settle down a bit. 

“I told you, no matter what goes on between your mum and I, you’ll always be my favorite little man, and I mean that.” He has his doubts, though. He was never Paul’s son, and he never would be. Why should this man care about him unless he has marriage papers saying he should? There's nothing stopping him from disappearing and leaving James in the dust. 

Paul promises his mum he’ll move his things out so she and James can keep their long-time home. He stands on the stairs to the building and watches as James and his mum move their things in the cab and climb inside for the ride to the bus station. His mum sits back in her seat and runs a hand through her hair. Paul waves and smiles ruefully as the vehicle begins to pull away.

“This’ll be good for us, James. I’m serious. Our fresh start, just us. It’ll be absolutely lovely,” his mum tells him, smiling and seemingly unaffected by the ordeal. He mutters an affirmative and tries not to turn back and search for his stepdad. 

Letting the cab drive away from his home, away from the closest thing he’s ever had to a father, is the hardest thing James has ever had to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this. It ended up being longer than anticipated, but I love James and I think the relationship he had with his family is quite fascinating, even with just the little snippets we've seen. I wanted to explore his past and the way his mum and stepdad worked, and how that affected him. 
> 
> Apologies for any potential typos or inconsistencies :)
> 
> Title is from The Beatles, but it's only one word so it probably doesn't matter lol


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